


Curse, Bless Me Now With Your Fierce Tears

by Elise_Davidson



Series: 40 Snapshots [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: 36. Tears, 40 Snapshots, M/M, Minor Character Death, SorryJhamel, mildkid!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7614082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elise_Davidson/pseuds/Elise_Davidson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shran needs it, he knows Enterprise will always give it.  And even if Enterprise won't, Archer will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curse, Bless Me Now With Your Fierce Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Dylan Thomas's "Do not go gentle into that good night". Beta'd only mildly by LegacySoulReaver; any remaining mistakes are my own.

36\. Tears

Archer automatically granted Shran board to Enterprise when asked. He didn’t even question it anymore really—Andorian or not, Shran had proved his worth over the years, despite T’Pol’s reservations. Unexpected, sure, but Shran still had Archer’s respect (in most cases, and even then, Archer knew that Shran had a tell that had something to do with the way his antennae moved, not that Archer would ever point it out).

It was unexpected, however, when Shran came from the airlock passage off his shuttle with 10-year-old Talla in tow. Talla came first from the ship and looked sadder and paler than Archer had ever seen her, and Shran looked as pale as the average Aenar.

“Uncle Jon!” Talla suddenly wailed upon seeing him, her arms outstretched and her antennae drooping.

Archer caught her as she launched herself into his arms, raising an eyebrow in Shran’s direction as his hands closed over her small shoulder blades. “Talla, it’s okay. What’s wrong?”

Talla sniffed, wiping her nose against his shoulder. “Mom’s gone,” she whispered in his ear, and there was an odd inflection to her voice—just odd enough that Archer realized she had said it in English and not Andorian or Aenarian. Someone had bothered to teach her English.

“It’s okay, Talla. You and your dad are going to stay with us a while, right?” Archer responded in the casual tone of voice he reserved for first contact situations, knowing all the while that this was a delicate issue.

Talla nodded miserably against his shoulder before raising her head to pin Archer down with a fierce, icy-blue gaze that was all her father. “You’ll take care of my father, right?”

Archer tensed and he knew Talla could feel it. He forced himself to relax. “Of course, Talla. Why don’t you go with T’Pol and get something to eat?”

Talla seemed to regard T’Pol with a heavy suspicion, perhaps remembering the time she had been five and she had been separated from her father. “She’s…Vulcan?” The word sounded foreign coming off of Talla’s lips.

Trip saved the day at that moment, swooping in behind T’Pol. “She’s a different kind of Vulcan,” he offered with a charming smile that smacked of southern charm and, more importantly, trust.

Shran finally seemed to think he could crawl up from the shuttle. “Jhamel died,” he confessed quietly at Archer’s side. There was an edge of reluctant emotion that colored his voice, but Archer declined to ask.

“I got that,” Archer whispered with irritated urgency as Talla assessed Trip and T’Pol both. “Why here?”

“Look, pinkskin,” Shran started angrily, but then abruptly stopped before he said nothing more.

A long silence came, with only Talla asking direct, blunt questions about T’Pol being Vulcan, Trip being Human, and everything in between. The chatter was unique among Enterprise, being that children weren’t often on the ship for obvious reasons. Shran remained quiet uncharacteristically beside of Archer, watching as Talla decided slowly that T’Pol wasn’t that bad for a Vulcan, and Trip wasn’t that bad of a pinkskin.

“Why did you come here?” Archer asked as T’Pol and Trip took one each of Talla’s hands to lead her to the mess hall, occasionally letting her jump, arch, and swing between them.

Shran sighed tiredly, his antennae falling. “Because I knew what to expect.”

It was decisively cryptic, even for Shran, but Archer let it go at the moment. “Are you hungry?” Archer finally asked in deference of the obvious pain Shran held.

Shran sighed. “Not really.” He reached into the messenger bag across his hip and produced a glass, spiraled bottle of bright blue liquid. “Ale?”

Archer snorted. “We’ll go to my quarters then. Do you want to arrange for care for Talla for the night?” he asked, thinking at least he was being considerate.

“Your science and engineering officers seem to have her well in hand.” Shran looked guilty suddenly, his eyebrows furrowing deeply and his hand coming up to wipe across his face. “I…” He glanced at Archer, eyes too dark and shadowed against the dark blue of his skin. “I need a night off.” His fingers rubbed against the base of the antenna that Archer had sliced off in deference of murder.

Archer nodded in understanding, and Shran let it go that his gesture was patronizing.

“Archer to T’Pol and Tucker,” Archer said in a commanding voice into the intercom.

“T’Pol here,” came T’Pol’s strained voice, a clear harmony of tension that belied the fact her patience had reached its breaking point.

“Tucker here,” came Trip’s amused tone—there seemed to be a note of affection, as if he were engaging Talla more than T’Pol’s ire.

Archer smiled; he guessed that taking care of Talla was easier on Trip than T’Pol. “Can you see to it that Talla is taken care of tonight?”

“Captain,” T’Pol murmured, “She is quite…inquisitive, I am not sure that either Commander Tucker or I can perform our duties while managing her.”

Faintly, Talla’s voice came out over the intercom. “Come on, _tyla’ran_...pinkskin wants to show me the engine!”

“Talla?” Shran interrupted in a way that brooked no argument. “I need you to listen to me.”

“Yes, Father,” Talla responded obediently.

Shran gave Archer a pained look before speaking into the intercom. “If you’re going to see the engine, you will not address Commander T’Pol as _tyla’ran_. You will address her as Commander T’Pol; do you understand?” Shran unexpectedly locked gazes with Archer as he said it.

Archer swallowed; before he could really put a finger on it, he realized that whatever _tyla’ran_ meant in Andorian, it must have been a slur to Vulcans. It also occurred to him at the same time that Shran was instructing his daughter to refrain from saying it. Archer maintained eye contact as Shran’s hand came to rest against the wall, blue fingers and sky-colored nails ticking restlessly against the surface.

“Do you understand, Talla?” Shran asked as he fidgeted in agitation.

“Yes, Father,” Talla practically sighed, as if she were being asked to lift a gas giant. “I can see the engine now, right, pinkskin?”

Archer smirked wryly at Shran as the Andorian’s antennae toyed and jerked.

“You will address Commander Tucker by his proper rank and name, Talla,” Shran finally forced out, dark eyes still dragging over Archer.

Talla sighed again. “If I must.”

Shran’s lips quirked as Archer suddenly stepped closer. “Yes. You must. Commander T’Pol and Commander Tucker will see to putting you into a room.”

A foreign string of words that Hoshi’s translator couldn’t pick up flowed suddenly, and Archer stared with a look just shy of fascination.

Shran turned when the intercom was off, noting Archer’s sudden gaze of interest. “I was telling her a few things that as an Andorian, she will understand.”

Archer tilted his head in obvious curiosity, but decided not to ask further. Instead, he picked up the glass bottle of Andorian ale. “Shall we then?”

Shran nodded tiredly, gesturing back to the dining room in Archer’s quarters.

Archer surprised him, and they ended up sitting against the wall and across on Archer’s bunk, sharing the bottle of Andorian ale with Porthos lying at the foot of the bed as if in protective watch.

The bottle was easily half done when Shran finally decided he could talk.

“Jhamel…she was everything,” Shran murmured, alcohol slurring his speech as he turned into Archer’s shoulder for the warmth. “She was cold, but she was mine.”

Archer, with little warning and a bit sloppily, wrapped an arm around Shran’s shoulder. “You have a piece of her, in Talla, you know.”

Shran snorted condescendingly. “Oh, I know,” he said before taking another deep drink of blue liquid. “She knew so many things about me.”

Archer’s thumb and forefinger dug into Shran's shoulder sharply, as if urging him to wrap into the warmth. “Like?”

Shran snorted. “She knew I kept a running tally of the favors we owe each other.” He took another drink because he damn well deserved it at this point. “It’s why I knew you’d let me on the ship.”

Archer’s eyes were glassy and blown and dilated; his body was warm and hard against Shran. “Why did I let you on then?” he asked.

Shran tilted his head in Archer—no, _Jon’s_ —direction. “Because you still owe me.”

Archer stared down at him, face slack with ale. “Why did you bring Talla here?” he asked, quiet and serious, unconsciously drifting a thumb down Shran’s shoulder.

Shran felt the strange sound in his throat more than heard it. “Because I knew she would be safe.”

“You could’ve done that on Andoria,” Archer responded relentlessly.

Once again, Shran felt the frustrated grunt escape more than he acknowledged making it. “Because you _owe_ me.”

“And here I am,” Archer muttered before his fingers wrapped fully around Shran’s shoulder.

Shran couldn’t help the way his antennae suddenly swiped against Archer’s hair in a way that he was sure Archer wouldn’t realize was far more intimate than was indicated.

The silence was overwhelming this time, and Shran decided to take advantage of the compassion of a pinkskin. He tilted his head into the crook of Archer’s neck, breathing in the salt-sweet smell of human flesh, the hard lines of a male body.

The ale was nearly gone when Archer offered to escort Shran to his quarters. They stood outside the doors in awkward silence, as if both knew that something more than friendship and comradery had passed between them.

Shran abruptly wrapped a hand around Jon’s neck, pulling his face to his. Instead of a kiss, however, their foreheads met and one antenna stroked against Jon’s temple in a way that Shran was almost certain Jon wouldn’t understand the meaning of.

“I’m sorry…Shran…” Jon murmured drunkenly against his cheek. “I’m sorry…about Jhamel.”

Blue tears streaked down Shran’s face, icy and cold against the warmth of Archer’s skin. Before he could acknowledge the tears, there was a distinct feeling of hot against his flesh.

When Shran pulled back, he realized Archer’s eyes were wet and, due to the different body temperatures, the hotness was the feeling of a human’s tears on his cool skin.

“Thy’lek,” Shran blurted, pupils dilated.

Archer stared at him. “I’m sorry?” he asked in obvious confusion.

“My familial name,” Shran elaborated, “The one my parents call me, that…” He hesitated, unsure of where he wanted to take this, “The one Jhamel called me; it’s Thy’lek.”

“Thy’lek,” Archer said, and his accent was off and his name sounded so alien rolling off Archer’s mouth.

“Jonathon, right?” Shran knew it had come out strange, just based on the way Archer looked at him.

“Yeah,” Archer replied, and continued to crowd Shran’s space. “Your antenna…it stroked me.”

Shran nodded defiantly.

“That’s…intimate, for Andorians, yes?”

“Yes, pinkskin,” Shran responded in an attempt to sound amused and irritated, but sounded a lot more exhausted than he meant to; he had wanted to sound annoyed.

Archer nodded slowly before he pushed Shran into the borrowed quarters. “So Andorians don’t kiss?”

His voice sounded not completely in control, and Shran felt a tremble wrack through him.

Shran frowned, trying to play dumb so that if rejection were what he had to face, he could at least save face. “What?”

Archer snorted softly and then cupped a warm ( _no, hot_ ) hand around Shran’s cheek. “A kiss. Andorians don’t kiss?”

Shran stared at him in confusion until suddenly, Archer’s lips were against his, tight and firm and so scorching fierce against his own mouth that he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and then, without warning, Archer swiped a searing tongue against his lips.

Shran jolted and slumped against the door of his borrowed quarters, unable to really deal with the unexpected heat. Bluish tears still stained his cheeks as he raised his hands to Archer’s face, his antennae folding across Jon’s skin and hair in order to learn the feel, the texture, the scent of him.

“You’re warm,” Shran said in wonder, fingers tracing the tracks of wet on Archer’s face.

It was nearly three days before Shran realized that the wet on Jon’s face was tears, and that the tears of a pinkskin were clear, not sky blue, and that Jon was hurting too, simply because Shran had been.

It was another week before Talla cheerfully decided that Trip was the coolest Human she had ever met, and that T’pol wasn’t bad…for a Vulcan.

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End file.
